Fence Post

I don’t sleep that well -

always listening

for a squeak down at the back gate

that lets me know if he’s come around,

his hand on the fence post

he never finished painting…

handsplit wood and rusty hinges beat by the rain.

I remember the last time I saw him -

Mom standing at the fence,

beating at the post.

He was going hunting.

I lie here in the dark.

If you’ve every heard such silence,

it’s a god-awful sound.